He had run, jumping like an ungainly, overgrown schoolboy over muddy puddles that hadn’t existed a few minutes ago. As he did, he had glanced up at the house. Kate was standing, framed by the long window in the studio, in her nightshirt, her unkempt hair hanging around her shoulders and the doll clasped tightly to her. She seemed not to see Will dashing for shelter. In fact, her face showed no expression at all.

Will had stood and gaped at her. For all the world she looked like Emilia’s cottage as it was now. A pretty shell with no life in it.

He kicked off his shoes and tore off his wet shirt, then took the steep stairs at a run. Along the galleried landing he saw that the studio door was closed but that of the bedroom stood ajar. In the semi-darkness he saw Kate’s shape, huddled in the bed.

So now she was sleepwalking. He had been able to at least relax when she slept. These brief periods of respite had now come to an abrupt end. What if she wandered off on to the marsh?

He decided not to think about it for the time being. A sudden gust of wind drove the rain against the window with such force he feared it might shatter. The noise was awful, but still Kate slept on.

He sat for nearly half an hour watching the trees and shrubs whip this way and that. The wind screamed and whistled, but the willowy branches refused to snap until, to his horror, the rowan gave a great crack followed by a squeal, and the beautiful tree crashed to the ground.

He heard again Kate’s words, echoing back from the past. ‘They are lucky trees, darling! They belong to the goddess. They give protection to the garden and keep harm away.’

He stared in dismay at the fallen tree. It had missed the outbuildings, the shed and the greenhouse but had come down directly on to the Anderson shelter, yet another thing to upset Kate.

As he looked on helplessly at the devastation, he had the irrational thought that he must get rid of it before she woke up. Kate would take this to be an omen, a bad one. She believed all that old tosh about the rowan being the witch’s tree, and as Sam Page had said, it was what she believed that was the problem.

Oh, Jesus! Why the hell did it have to be the fucking rowan? He felt a rush of pity for that small figure hunched beneath the bedclothes. She was so vulnerable, so fragile. His precious fairy was walking on a tightrope made of gossamer. Would he be strong enough to catch her should the delicate filigree give way?